


outside the kitchen window

by rosyjaeh



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Artist Renjun and Art Critic Jaemin, Artists, Enemies to Lovers, M/M, but like not really, idk - Freeform, soft? maybe?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-18 20:42:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20319208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosyjaeh/pseuds/rosyjaeh
Summary: Ever since he was little, Jaemin’s had a thing for breaking things.





	outside the kitchen window

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lxvenxtes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lxvenxtes/gifts).

#

“Aren’t you tired of tearing that man to shreds already?”

Jaemin looks up from the keyboard to find his editor sitting across the desk, scrolling through the second to final draft of Jaemin’s latest article on his super cool editor laptop. The one with the stickers on the back. 

He wishes he could have stickers on this back of his laptop, but of course, he doesn’t have the luxury of staying in his office all day, he has to go out and meet people. Appear professional and all that, in tailored designer suits and with his shiny, sticker-less laptop.

His latest article, which Jeno, his most trusted editor, is meant to overlook tonight, deals, once again, with the matter of Huang Renjun and his art gallery downtown.

It’s definitely not the first article Jaemin has written on the topic, Jeno is right. Now, Jaemin knows that Huang Renjun already hates him with a burning passion, not that he doesn’t have reason to, so there is not much likeability or friendship to save between the two of them. The only thing Jaemin can do is make it worse.

“I’ll never be tired of it,” he replies with an easy smile, turning back to his laptop. There is a draft of a second article about an upcoming art wave waiting for him.

Jeno’s eyes rest heavy on him, burn holes through his forehead as if he is trying to stare right into Jaemin’s brain, pick him apart piece by piece like he does with his writing. Attempting to make sense of a jumbled mess of words that Jaemin’s brain, hardly cooperating with his hands, produced in the middle of the night. Jeno has always been here, was there for him in the hardest of times. Even when Jaemin’s hands shake over his keyboard and he’s downed his seventh cup of coffee of the night, he never leaves. Nobody knows him better.

“Why are you so obsessed with him?” he asks eventually asks, and Jaemin’s hand nearly falls off the keyboard.

* * *

Ever since he was little, Jaemin’s had a thing for breaking things. He stuck his fingers into holes in his jeans, tearing until there was nothing left but scraps of fabric and his mother would scold him. He pressed down on bruises until they blossomed all over his knees like tiny violets of pain, he picked at scabs until he bled and played with broken toys until they were irreparable. Picked up debates again and again until his friends were done with him.

So if he just keeps prodding at Huang Renjun’s pride, keeps nagging at his art only to make his hatred for him worse, to coax a reaction out of him, to make him snap, that would be just like him.

As a kid, he never liked the result of the breaking. The action itself felt thrilling, addicting even, but the remorse settled in as soon as he held the broken thing in his hand, as soon as his parents scolded him for another torn pair of jeans, as soon as his friends turned away from the conversation.

Broken things mean trouble and unhappiness, but the act of breaking has always been too addicting to stop.

* * *

The gallery that Huang Renjun set his exhibition up in sits at the very edge of the town’s art district. By now, Jaemin’s feet carry him there on their own.

On one of the advertisement shelves right behind the glass doors, part of the way Renjun and his cousin finance renting out this place, Jaemin spots the issue of the magazine that his article was released in yesterday. The face of a popular Thai wall decal artist smiles from the cover, and his own name is plastered right below her chin.

The establishment is quite nice, Jaemin has got to admit. Very open, tiled white floors stretching endlessly in every direction, high walls and a glass casing giving the impression of timelessness. Amazing architecture that could, potentially, of course, lead to spectators being distracted from the art displayed on the walls, a detail that Jaemin mercilessly picked apart in one of his first articles. None of the visitors seem to be distracted today. Of course, that’s because Jaemin was discussing only a theoretical, a potential problem.

A degree in journalism and one in art criticism in his pocket, not much of what Jaemin writes is ever really tangible.

Jaemin finds Renjun towards the back of the hall. He’s talking to an elderly woman, gesturing towards the framed artwork in front of them.

The first time Jaemin saw Huang Renjun, he was not very impressed. He strolled along the gallery only days after its opening, trying to get a good first impression on this up and coming artist. Seeing the way Renjun painted, his bold strokes accentuated with excruciatingly tiny details, he expected someone powerful. Someone so disgustingly aware of themselves that they wore their head a little too high and spoke down their nose.

Huang Renjun is just some kid. He’s short, petite almost, wears clothes way too casual for a setting like this, sleeves falling past his palms, and moves around the gallery with such a quietness that Jaemin mistook him for a visitor.

The second time he saw him, Jaemin was mesmerized.

“Mr Na.” Renjun ended his conversation with the elderly lady, and makes the short way over to Jaemin. “I didn’t expect to see you here. Again. I read your article. Thanks for the input, I appreciate it.”

Jaemin learned quickly that nothing about Renjun is as quiet as it seemed at first. In the harsh herd that is art school, they forged him sharp like wielding knives, icy like the winter in Seoul. No matter how many blows Jaemin delivers, Renjun remains composed. Won’t unleash his anger, won’t give Jaemin the satisfaction.

But Jaemin has always liked testing how good at breaking he really is.

Before he leaves the gallery that night, Renjun presses their hands together under the counter at the back, where none of the visitors can see.

* * *

“You really went all out this time,” is what Jaemin is greeted with as soon as he steps through the front door of their apartment.

He smiles to himself while he steps out of his shoes. “Well yeah, had to make it big one last time.”

Renjun is waiting for him on the couch, wrapped up in a big blanket and with a bowl of chips in his lap. There’s some Netflix show playing on TV but neither of them pay attention to it as Jaemin collapses on top of Renjun, almost knocking the chips to the floor.

“Sorry for spending last night in the office again, I just fell asleep.”

He can feel when Renjun smiles against his shoulder. “Exhausted after publicly humiliating some innocent artists?”

“At least you’re no longer on the receiving end of it. At least from me.”

They shuffle around on their, admittedly kind of small for two people, couch until they find a more comfortable position, with arms wound around each other, legs tangled and Renjun’s head pressed to Jaemin’s shoulder.

In moments like this, Renjun’s sharp, unyielding blades become something soft, something warm, wrapped up in a blanket and Jaemin’s arms. In moments like this, Jaemin doesn’t want to break things.

They’re expected to hate each other, that’s how it started. They’re _ known _for hating each other.

But Renjun taught Jaemin a long time ago that handling things with care, that keeping things, is much nicer than breaking them. And by now, it might just be the thing Jaemin is best at.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah. I kinda changed where I was going with this halfway through and I wrote part of it while I was sick. I hope you still kinda find this cute or whatever and enjoy my interpretation of the prompt.


End file.
